


Suture

by eloquated



Series: Anatomy [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, Tissue Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Suture (n.):a stitch or row of stitches holding together the edges of a wound or surgical incision.In the wake of Mycroft's death, nothing for Sherlock will ever be the same.But you can survive, even when it feels like half of you is missing.(follows the events ofCapillary, and is the final installment of theAnatomyseries.)





	1. three weeks

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been ages since I've updated this series, but trying to figure out what to do after Capillary was hard than expected! Plus, I was a little emotionally crashed after it, and needed to write some happier things!
> 
> I do have the rest of the series mapped out now, and I'll hopefully be updating fairly frequently. Thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with me, and now, onto the last part of the series!

“Come on, Sherlock.  This is part of being a functional bloody human being.”  

Molly’s living room was a small space on the best of days, but with three grown men-- even though one of them was draped out across the couch like he intended to put down roots there-- and half of Sherlock’s odds and ends scattered about, it seemed almost claustrophobic.  

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock eyed the figures in the doorway, wishing they would just evaporate and leave him in peace.  John made it sound so easy! As if he could just pick himself up from the couch, and get changed, and face this. As if the idea of seeing Mycroft’s body in that polished, padded box wouldn’t propel him back into the wild, downward spiral that he was still frantically trying to claw his way out of.

John, in his best military blacks; polished and pressed as a sign of respect for the man who had lost his life to save him.  Sherlock could see the flickering tension at the corners of his eyes and mouth, could read the falseness in the set of his shoulders.  A sign of respect for Mycroft’s parents, then.

Sherlock had almost expected Lestrade to do the same, come in his dress uniform, Detective Inspector at his formal best.  But the older man was leaning against the door frame in a simple suit. Here, then, as the man that had shared a million midnight coffees with Mycroft in the hospital canteen.  Waiting for Sherlock to wake up. Sober up. Clean up his act.

Somehow, the reminder of that hurt almost worse than the knowledge that they were prepared to attend his funeral.

His.

_ His Mycie _ .

“I’m not going.”  Sherlock snapped again, his fingers dragging on the knot of his loosened tie.  He’d made the effort. He’d tried. But it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference in the end.  He was only grateful that neither of them had seen the humiliating way he’d curled into the corner of the couch when the choking sobs had forced their way up his throat again.

Molly had, but she’d seen it so often in the days since he’d moved in that it wasn’t a surprise anymore.  She’d held him, waited for the bitter tears to stop; and the comfort of it had outweighed the price to his pride.

“No, enough.  You’re coming, and that’s the end of it.  You can’t just pretend this isn’t happening, Sherlock-- now get your coat.”  

Stiff upper lip.  Just get through it, soldier on.  Do what’s expected, because people are relying on you.

“John, mate, if he’s--”  Greg interjected, his gaze sliding uncomfortably from Sherlock to John, and back again.  He didn’t want to get in the middle of it, but he didn’t need to be a Holmes, or have their powers of deduction, to see that Sherlock was struggling.  His eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and his complexion had the waxy paleness of someone who hasn’t been sleeping.

Not for the first time, Greg wanted to kick himself for letting Sherlock chase him away so easily.  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Thankfully, Molly chose that moment to step out of her bedroom, still fiddling with the back of an earring.  “What’s going on?” She asked after a confused pause, her hands falling to smooth an invisible crease from the front of her smart, dark dress.  

“Tell him.  It’s a sign of respect for the dead for him to come to the funeral.  None of the rest of us want to be there, but we’re still going. It’s a few hours, and then he can get back to whatever else he’s doing here.”  John supplied, his arms crossed over his chest as he flanked Greg in the doorway.

Molly lapsed silent for a beat.  And another. “And who made you the arbiter of his grief?  Sherlock has to do what’s right for him-- not what you’ve decided is right.”  

John blicked at the unexpected rebuke, and squared his shoulders in annoyance; but it was Greg who shrugged off his jacket and crossed the room in half a dozen long strides.  “Alright then, mate.” He said simply, and dropped down onto the small, worn couch beside Sherlock, his arms deliberately loose at his sides, “Guess if you’re staying, so am I.”

“Don’t encourage him, Lestrade!”

“M’ not.  But if there is an afterlife, and I think there is, then I don’t want to be facing Mycroft Holmes on the other side of the Pearly Gates.  If he was alive, he’d tell me that I knew where my place was. Same as it always was. Right here beside Sherlock, keeping him out of trouble.  It’s what he’d want.”

Nobody could argue with that.  

“You go, Molly.”  Sherlock broke the silence, throat working against the hard lump that seemed to have knotted there, “Lestrade will make sure I’m alright. And someone…”  Greg almost reached over when he faltered, but the proud way Sherlock tilted his chin made him think twice about it. “Someone needs to tell my parents why I’m not there.  And to tell me how it goes.”

Leaning over, Molly squeezed his cold hand, feeling the rigid tension in his fingers release with relief.  He wouldn’t have to go. Wouldn’t have to face this. Not in a room full of people, surrounded by their prying gazes and incriminating glares.

_ Why was Sherlock still alive, and his brother-- the  _ _ better brother _ _ \-- gone? _

_ How could this have been allowed to happen? _

_ Why hadn’t Sherlock stopped it?  He was supposed to be the great detective, shouldn’t he have known? _

Judging him for grieving too much, or not grieving enough.  Watching him, and waiting to see what he would do. Offering their condolences, and  _ oh, it was such a terrible loss.   _

Asking how he was holding up.  Would he be alright? Was there anything they could do?

Greg didn’t press him to talk. 

And when the silence grew too long, and too heavy, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down his cheeks, Greg gathered him wordlessly up against his side, and let Sherlock weep out the fresh wave of grief into his shoulder.

Nothing made it better.  

But for a while, the warm arm around his shoulders meant he didn’t have to bear the weight alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love, and swing down into the comments for extra tissues! (Goodness knows I write with them beside me!)


	2. one year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of resonance and Mind Palace architecture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something with a little less angst today! (In this series? Shocking!) 
> 
> I know there's a lot going on in this chapter, because there's a bunch of transitional stuff, and setting up for what happens next. I promise, it is important and it gets better from here!

“Morphic Resonance.”

“Excuse me?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Molly set down the trade market paperback she’d picked up in the supermarket checkout; an impulse buy with a glossy cover and no redeeming moral value, just a lot of sweeping adventure and an escape from the dreary London rain.

“Morphic Resonance.”  Sherlock repeated from the foot of her bed, where he had stretched himself out in a sprawl of long limbed grace.  He took up most of the space, and had wedged up a bit of the coverlet under his head in a makeshift pillow. His gaze was fixed up on the ceiling, and Molly wasn’t entirely sure he was talking to her directly.

He did that sometimes.

Still, she waited a moment to see if there would be any explanation forthcoming-- predictably, there wasn’t.  

“Yes?  I mean, I don’t know much about the theory, but what about it?”  She ask after a moment, and stuck the marker into her book. Clearly Sherlock wanted to talk, and that meant the tales of adventure on the high seas, and deviously charming rogues, would have to wait.

“The idea that one thing-- one group-- can learn from another.  Pass information along without ever meeting. Inherited memory, low grade telepathy.” Sherlock explained to the ceiling, and curled one arm under his head with a leaden sigh that seemed dredged up from the pit of his chest.  “And that knowledge resonates out from the starting point.’

“We used to feel like that. Like neural pathways had been forged between our brains.”

It had been a year since Mycroft’s death, almost exactly, and Molly had been waiting for some mention of it. 

Grief was a strange thing; and when the initial despair, devastating and consuming, had faded? It was something that lay quiet.  Waiting for your guard to drop, and rushing in with fresh misery at every reminder of what you’d lost.

221B had been repaired, and while Sherlock spent most of his days there-- working, researching, threatening to create new elements, or compounds that would probably get him put on a government watch list.  The nights he stayed at Molly’s. 

They didn’t talk about Sherlock moving out.  Or Molly moving into the flat at Baker Street.

It felt too much like planning.  

So they coasted along between Wednesdays with Molly’s brother, and loads of laundry, and Friday nights with Greg.  When Sherlock’s attempts at cooking went awry, Molly aired out the flat while he went to grab chips for dinner. 

And if the division between ‘Molly’s things’ and ‘Sherlock’s things’ began to blur?  Well, that was just something that happened. They knew where their boundaries lay.

They weren’t together, but their lives orbited one another.  It was nice to have someone at home that didn’t expect you to speak; someone you could sit in silence with. 

Waiting out the unspoken inevitable was easier when you weren’t alone.  

Sherlock didn’t glance over as he spoke, he simply addressed the small, brown spot of water damage over his head.  “I can still feel him, sometimes. At the very edge of my perception, if I concentrate. John thinks it’s wishful thinking, and hindering my ability to move on.’

“I knew he was gone.  That night. I could feel it.”

For a long time, Molly didn’t say a word; she just watched Sherlock staring at the ceiling, the two of them falling into a companionable silence.  Outside, the rain had started again, drumming against the glass and breaking the quiet in the room, sparing it from becoming too heavy and oppressive.

“I suppose John might be right, Sherlock.  It sounds like something a doctor should say.  Basic Psychology 101. But … I think it’s because you don’t really want to.”

That seemed to catch his attention.

“Want to?”

“Move on.”

With a rustle of linens, Sherlock twisted around to face her properly, his head propped on the flat of his palm.  Surveying. Watching. And Molly didn’t flinch away from the searching, blue gaze the way she would have once. 

As children, Sherlock had felt the resonance from his brother in his mind; a steady, comforting presence.  It came with understanding, and adoration-- in the matched spaces of their minds, they could build and build, until Sherlock’s Mind Palace had overlapped with his brother’s, and they had shared those spaces.  

Fragments of music.

Flashes of colour.

A touch, a smell.  

Slipping from beneath the doors of their shared spaces, and colouring the walls and the air of Sherlock’s mind with the reminder that he wasn’t alone.  That he could rant and yell, and tear the world down around him. But he would never have to face it alone.

He loved.  Was loved. 

And together, they were whole.

Mycroft’s death had turned those spaces dim and quiet.  It echoed inside his mind, and once familiar corridors now ended in violent dead ends.  Doors were locked. And there were places inside his mind that it was no longer safe to tread.

The bright halls and orderly lines of Mycroft’s mind had been his refuge.

Now the chess board gathered dust, and the pieces remained frozen and waiting for a move that would never come.  Mycroft always had been better at chess, but it was one match he’d never win.

The safe brightness had turned liminal and strange, and it made his brain itch with the wrongness of it.

Yet, sometimes, Sherlock was certain he could hear the whispering vestiges of his brother’s voice.  Lingering, half-heard syllables that might be memory, and might be desperately wishful thinking-- but what did John know of the vast word the Holmes brother’s had used to bridge the spaces between their thoughts?

It had been a year.

With a hard swallow, Sherlock rested his head on his crossed arms, and closed his eyes.  

He didn’t cry anymore.  He lived, he worked, he spoke to his friends, and played with his goddaughter.  He learned to almost enjoy Greg and Molly’s terrible taste in sci-fi, and found himself humming the themes for children’s shows.  

Sherlock Holmes had reasons to live, and things to be grateful for.

“You think I’m waiting to die.”

“Aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sure about this chapter, so I'd really love to hear what you think, and what your theories are about what's going to happen! ❤️


	3. two years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the parting of the ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! Just before I start, I wanted to say thank you, and a million thanks, to all the people that took the time to leave me a comment after the last chapter. I've been feeling a bit discouraged, and your comments have given me back my inspiration. Thank you again! ❤️

“It’s been two years, you can’t live with her forever.”

“This again, John? I thought we’d decided that you weren’t going to harp on about this anymore.”

“No,  _ you _ decided that you didn’t want to talk about it.  A year ago. And I’ve decided that, as your friend, I need to make you see some sense!”

John pitched his voice into a low hiss, compressed by the way he was stretched out on his stomach.  The rough gravel on the rooftop bit through their jackets with sharp, uncomfortable angles-- even for April, it was unseasonably cold, and not for the first time that night, John very much wished he was back home with his daughter.

Warm.  With a cup of tea and his slippers.  God, he was getting too old for this job.

Had been for a while.  

“And you’ve decided that it’s your solemn duty as the saviour of womankind-- or is that just the women you see as downtrodden and unable to stand up for themselves?  Neither label which applies to Molly, I might add. To what? Convince me that this is… what? Unhealthy? People have roommates all the time, John.” 

There was a drop of acid in his tone, a not-so-subtle warning that John was pushing his nose into subjects that Sherlock didn’t care to argue about.  Not when they were both cold, and had been stuck waiting on the roof for hours. How long could one suspect really take to finish a meal? Sherlock doubted the heady, rich scents of garlic and basil wafting up from the Italian restaurant were helping his companion’s mood, either.

“That’s not what I… Sherlock.”  The gravel crunched slightly as John belly crawled closer to the edge of the roof, feeling the tiny grains as they hooked and caught on his jacket, sharp fragments working their way between the gaps in the material.  

Yes, he wanted to be home.  Wanted to tuck his daughter into bed properly, and get a full night sleep before heading off to the clinic in the morning.

Mycroft had told him, years before, that he missed the war.  And he’d been right. 

But at some point, that longing for the adrenaline and the fine razor edge had worn out of him.  It hadn’t been the same after Sherrinford. Sherlock hadn’t been the same. John had seen the abyss on the other side of the razor, and he had Rosie to think of.

She needed him.

And he didn’t miss it anymore.

“Sherlock.”  John said again, and ignored the way his friend’s whole body seemed to tense; one long tremor sliding down from his shoulders and making him shift on the unforgiving stones.  

“John.”

“Have you thought about giving it up?  Settling down? Molly’d be a good wife for you, she already puts up with your rubbish, and your experiments.  Don’t know how, but she does. Get married, maybe have a kid of your own. Rosie loves you, and it’d be good for you.  Family of your own, and all that. With your brains you could get a job anywhere.”

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot.”  He didn’t sound surprised. But then, John had never been able to hide much from him.

“You’re my friend, Sherlock, of course I have. I want you to be happy.”

And in a way, Sherlock was sure he did.  For John, it was just so simple; he could get married and settle into lovely domesticity.  

Nor was he wrong.  Sherlock  _ could _ do all those things.  After two years, John wasn’t even the first person that had mentioned his unconventional living arrangements.  His own parents, and Molly’s family, had quietly assumed that eventually…  _ eventually. _

They understood each other.  Worked well together. And enjoyed the other’s company.

People had married for less.  And for worse.

But that wasn’t them.  They weren’t those people.  

And Sherlock had always known that that domesticity was never the life for him.  

“We’re friends, John.  Room mates. We’re perfectly happy with our living arrangements.”  Sherlock’s voice echoed faintly against the metal lip at the edge of the roof, and the sulfur yellow lights at the edges caught on a few threads of grey that hadn’t been there before.  

None of them were as young as they’d once been.

“You don’t need to  _ save _ Molly from her own altruism.  Or try to pawn me off one someone else, just because you’re feeling guilty about telling me that you’re leaving.  It’s been obvious for some time that your heart hasn’t been in the work.”

“I have other responsibilities, Sherlock.  People that depend on me, and expect me to be there. And being out here?  I’m letting them down. I’ve worked too long, and too hard, to be a good doctor-- and I don’t want to fritter all that away, waiting on a roof for some mark to finally leave his good meal.”

Sherlock had seen it coming.  

But when John crawled up to his feet with a crunch of gravel under his boots, the knowing offered no comfort.  

“Think about what I said.  I’m worried about you, Sherlock, it’s been two years.  You’ve got to get passed this. I know it’s hard, but people die.  It’s a part of life, and you can’t put everything on hold forever. Eventually even you have to move on.”  John paused, and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension from laying too long on the cold stones. “The rest of us have.”

Sherlock didn’t try to stop him as he walked back the way they had come.  

The roof felt colder without his company, and the wind seemed just that little bit stronger without the familiar presence at his side.

It wasn’t forever, he reminded himself-- he was still Rosie’s godfather, and they watched her several times a week.  John wasn’t absenting himself from his life, just this part of it. But it sounded like a thin justification in his mind, so Sherlock quieted that train of thought and focused on the job at hand.

The criminals weren’t going to catch themselves, even if John wasn’t there to write about it after.

Things would never be quite the same between them.

And ‘The Dark Coffin’ was the final tale of Sherlock Holmes and his loyal Dr. Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All things in their own time... And if you have time, come swing into the comments for a chat! xoxo


	4. four years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock realizes that not everything is forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I know this chapter is a little later than I'd anticipated, but I'd gotten a few comments that had shaken my confidence. Anyway! Long story short, I'm definitely still here, and continuing as I had originally intended. (After all, we have to write for ourselves first!)
> 
> The setting for this chapter is inspired by a conversation with the infinitely wonderful, sherlock221Bismymuse, and her fic, 'Mummy chooses her handbasket'.

“Sherlock, would you pass me that-- yes, that box, thank you.”

The box was one of many, gathering in the corners of the room and marching down the hall.  They were stacked in solid pyramids near the door, and labeled with his father’s thin, crabbed handwriting.  

Boxes to keep.  

Boxes to donate.

Boxes of things to be sold at auction, and so many boxes that still needed to be assigned.  It didn’t feel like packing a home, Sherlock thought, it felt like they were dismantling his parent’s lives.  

This had been their home for decades, the place they’d raised their children after the ruins of Musgrave.  Their memories seemed steeped into the walls and the floorboard-- even for Sherlock, who had always avoided sentiment, there was no escaping that here.  

This was where Sherlock had lost his first tooth.  

Where Mycroft had sat with him on the couch, and taught him to read, (and where Sherlock had pretended he’d forgotten how, just so his brother would read to him).  

There were faded tick marks on the kitchen door frame where his father had measured their height.

And through the window, Sherlock could see the back garden where his mother had created her own little corner of Eden with flowers of every colour imaginable.  Of course, it was mostly brown and grey at this time of year, the leaves curled into themselves and limned with a layer of frost. But it would be beautiful in the spring, and for the first time in decades, they wouldn’t be here to see it.

Sherlock had never wanted to come home, and now that he was facing the  _ never, never again _ , he wished with prickling grief that he’d tried harder.  

The house had always seemed isolating, like being cast away from the world; and he’d felt trapped in it.  But his parents, for all their missteps and mistakes, had loved their children. And the boxes lining the room were the stark reminder that he wouldn’t have them forever.

“Mycroft painted this.”  Sherlock hummed, half to himself and half to his father, who was scrawling a label on a fresh box.  To donate. It was a small painting on the living room wall, half lost amidst the others. The watercolours were slightly faded behind the layer of glass, a testament to the quality of the paints, and not the painter.

Siger paused in his work, one hand resting on the box, and offered his son a shallow nod, “He didn’t want you mother to hang it, but she insisted.  She was so proud of it. And he never wanted anyone to hear him play, or see his paintings… Not like you, playing your violin in the middle of the night, as loud as you could.”

At the mention of his mother, it was Sherlock’s turn to look away, towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor, and the bedrooms.  Mycroft had never wanted people to see his heart. But he’d drawn treasure maps when Sherlock was small; and anatomical diagrams when he was older and his tastes had run away from the high seas and into science.

Sherlock wondered if she’d saved any of those, and decided he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

Either they would find them in the course of the packing, or they wouldn’t.  He wasn’t even sure she would remember.

  
“I wish you’d been here yesterday.  She was having a good one.” Siger Holmes had once been as tall as his sons, but now his back creaked when he rose to his feet, and from the faint unsteadiness in his gait, Sherlock could deduce the trajectory of his creeping arthritis.  He didn’t want to see it, and a little part of his mind tried to argue that it was nothing more than stiffness from sitting on the floor too long. 

A thin veneer of denial, because there were things that even Sherlock couldn’t fix.

Age was one of them.

And he made a mental note, and underlined it in bold, to remind himself to deal with the majority of the lifting-- or at least to hire a company that would.

“How’s she doing?”  He finally asked, reverie broken by the reassuringly warm weight of his father’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder.  It was a good hand, as broad and solid as the man himself had always seemed. 

Siger Holmes was a smart man-- by all accounts, even a  _ very _ smart man.  But he’d never had the incandescent genius that his wife had. Or mad brilliance that was such a common vein in the Holmes family.  Sherlock had never considered it before; not really. He was smarter than his father, and the both knew it.

Yet, Siger had never resented him for it.  Even when Sherlock was young, and impossible.  He had been there. As present in his children’s lives as they had allowed him to be.  And standing there in the living room, Sherlock wondered if he could have done anything different-- and knew he could have.

But his family had seemed absolute.  They would always be there, and no he hadn’t worried.  

Now, Mycroft was gone.

And with every passing day, the glow of his mother’s brilliant mind was fading.  

His father was old, and Sherlock had the fat little packet of legal documents in his jacket pocket.  Executor. The job that should have been his brother’s, now falling to him. 

The Holmes family, winding down to one small, ex-junkie twig.

“I’ll visit more.”  He said abruptly, and felt the twitch that ran through the fingers on his shoulder.  Sherlock might have been a miserable excuse for a son, but he didn’t want to be. He wanted to help them move, and get them settled in the nursing home- (and God, he still couldn’t bring himself to say that aloud).  

“We’d like that.  I know it’s hard to see your mummy like this, but most days aren’t like this.  And she still remembers you, even if the details are getting a little beyond her.  Sometimes she forgets how old you are, or that Myc’s gone. But she loves you, and I think it’d do her good to see you.”

There was still time.

And he wanted to be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my loves, and I should have the next chapter up in a day or two! 💙


	5. five years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of wedding plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Not a lot of notes for this chapter, so lets just get right into it!

“Mate… Sherlock.  Do you have a second?  I just need to… spare me a minute to talk, yeah?”

Lestrade looked like he was walking on broken glass and eggshells, Sherlock noted (but he’d grown wiser, a little, and didn’t mention it aloud.)  The detective was standing in the doorway in his uniform, creased and folded at the cuffs like it always was after a long day at the office. Or an early morning on a rough case, he amended with a glance at the clock.

Slowly he shifted his weight from one foot to the other; telling, nervous.  Here to talk to Sherlock about something he didn’t want to address.

With a memorized script he didn’t have much faith in.

“Molly left tea, it’s still hot.”  He offered, partially to be polite-- but more to gauge the slightly panicked way Lestrade’s face pinched in at the corners of his mouth.  Guilty, then.

Over the years, Lestrade had seen him in a number of compromising positions, but Sherlock had never seen quite that expression on his face.  A new context to his guilt, something personal. It was a little disconcerting, if he was being entirely honest. And Sherlock didn’t appreciate being disconcerted first thing in the morning.

“Ta, thanks…  Been out at a scene all morning, in the rain.  Bloody criminals never have the common decency to dump the bodies somewhere warm.”  Greg attempted to joke, and slowly shrugged off his jacket, a few rivulets of water collecting in the leathery seams and dripping onto the doormat.  The whole way over, he’d been telling himself that it would be alright.

But this was Sherlock, and Lord knew he didn’t react predictably to anything.  And no matter how many times Greg had told himself that it would be alright-- that sure, Sherlock might be annoyed, but he could hardly blame the messenger!  He’d never quite managed to convince himself.

They’d seen some Hell together… And Sherlock had _dragged_ him through nearly as much.  The last thing he wanted was to cause him pain.  And Greg had enough empathy, enough understanding of the Holmes brain-

A survival instinct.  A learned adaptation after fifteen years of slightly warped friendship--

To know that there was a risk.  There was _always_ a risk.

“What is it, Lestrade?  It would be better for you to address your problem, rather than standing in the doorway, pretending the floor is made of lava.”  

Sherlock’s deadpan snapped him out of his reverie, and with a wan smile, Greg reached over for the cup of tea being unceremoniously waved under his nose.  “Right, yeah… Sorry. Just trying to organize my thoughts.” He fumbled less over the apology, which told Sherlock volumes about how tense his friend was.

He’d clearly come right from work.  Still in uniform. Rumpled and exhausted from a disturbed night (but something easily solved, because it was equally obvious that he hadn’t come to get Sherlock’s help).  

“Then let me help.”  Still in his robe, Sherlock swept across the living room of 221B, his cup of tea held aloft like an old fashioned gentleman might have held a pipe.  For a sharp moment, Greg was pricked with deja vu. “You’ve clearly come to bring me news of something you find- no, something you believe _I_ will find distasteful.’

“However, it’s not work-related, as evidenced by the fact that you’d been fidgeting in the door like a schoolboy, instead of coming right out with it.  Even had you thought I would refuse the case, you would have simply asked. So something personal; and you’ve convinced yourself that you need to address it immediately-’

“So, something you learned after your shift.  Something that’s clearly making you uncomfortable, but not enough to reject it outright.  Logic would state that it’s something you aren’t opposed to-- but rather, feel ashamed for being happy about.  And thus have come to seek my blessing, or condemnation, to solve your--”

“John’s asked me to be his best man.”  Greg blurted, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth and nearly choking on the last word.

The silence was terrible.

Sherlock canted his head, and slowly, very slowly, set his steaming mug down on the side table.  John had… Asked Lestrade… “I see.” He said gingerly.

He looked fragile, Greg thought.  But then, he’d felt the same way when John had flagged him down on the sidewalk outside the station; bright eyed and giddily cheerful.  That he was getting married was no surprise to anyone. After all, it had been over a year, and Sally had been dropping none-too-subtle hints for weeks.

They seemed happy.  Unlike the Sherlock, who chiefly looked a little grey around the edges.

“Look, mate, if this is going to be a problem, I’ll tell him no. He can find someone else to stand in for him.  This isn’t set in stone, and I told him I’d have to think about it. Only, he and I’ve spent a lot of time together since he and Donovan- well, guess she’ll be Watson, soon- got together.  But I wasn’t going to agree to anything till I’d had the chance to talk to you.”

“Well..meaning, I’m sure.  But you should accept. It’s no business of mine who John chooses to be his best man.”  Sherlock said, but the pause between words was too long, and too telling.

And even though he'd anticipated it, it all hurt so much more than he’d expected.  

It wasn’t as though they’d been close for some time.  John’s fledgling relationship with Sally Donovan had been a solid blow to their already struggling relationship.  His bride-to-be had never made any secret of her dislike for Sherlock.

But she’d made John happy, and if part of Sherlock had expected it to fizzle out in a week or two?  Well… Even brilliant Consulting Detectives could be wrong.

“You don’t have to decide now.  Give it a day, think on it. I’m not going to rush you.”  Lestrade was still standing in the doorway, his own mug cradled in his hands and leeching heat out through the old ceramic to warm his fingers.  “I know it’s a bit of a shock. Was for me, too. Last thing I thought he’d ask me.”

“No.  No, it’s quite fine… Less for me to worry about, anyway.”  And it was true, Sherlock reminded himself. Greg would make a solid best man, and it only made sense for him to stand with John.  

Even if he wanted to believe it had been mostly Sally’s idea.  It was unkind, and he had no proof, but Sherlock wasn’t feeling terribly generous.

“You’re going to be there, though, yeah?  I know John’s inviting you and Molls, and it’d mean a lot to him if you came.”

_He’s still your friend.  Still cares about you. I know this is a wrench, but it’s not so bad as it looks._

With the creak of old leather, Sherlock finally sank down on the end of his thinking couch, long fingers pressed up to his mouth.  

Of course he would attend.  John was his friend, and had been for a long time.  And if Sally didn’t like it? Well… that was a bridge they would have to cross when they came to it.  Surely, Sherlock promised himself, John wouldn’t let her cut him out entirely. He was moving on with his life-- and Sherlock was no psychiatrist, but he supposed that had to be a healthy thing.

The thing John had been prompting him to do for years (as if he could ever understand).

Still, a bruised part of him couldn't help but wonder if his invitation would somehow get lost in the post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Greg in the middle.. What do you think? Only a few more chapters left!


	6. five years, two weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a scattering of children's toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, second chapter up today! But I was feeling singularly inspired, and this really is a continuation from the last!

_“It’s not that you’re not amazing with Rosie, or that I don’t appreciate how much you’ve both helped out.  But Sally’s her mum now, and she’s already worked it out with Greg, so she can take our girl after school from now on.  Got to give them time to bond, right?’_

_“And she thinks.. Well, you know, Sherlock.  That we only want the best influences around Rosie.  She’s getting bigger, and she needs a real mum. Don’t want her growing up with the wrong ideas.  And Sally’s right, our Rosie, she’s at an impressionable age..’_

_“Only, you wouldn’t mind telling Molly?  You know what girls are like, and I don’t want to be the bad guy.”_

 

At the time, Sherlock had wanted to remind John that ‘helping out’ was an incalculable distance away from the truth.  For years, they’d juggled their schedules and taken Rosie every afternoon until John got off work, late in the evening.  Three or four nights a week she stayed at their house, so John could take Sally out. Or have ‘adult time’.

They’d picked her up from school when she was sick.  Molly had been the one to explain why John was seeing Sally, and what it meant to have a new mother.  

Sherlock had run across the city at the last moment to stand in for Parent Day, when John had forgotten.

They’d been the tooth fairy.  And laid presents under their tree for her.  Helped with school assignments. Answered the hard questions.  

Kissed scraped knees.

Carried her to bed when she’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Loved her.

From his place at the kitchen table, Sherlock watched Molly around the edge of his laptop, and wished he’d told John all of those things.  He wished could walk over and pull her into a hug, or acknowledge the red rimmed eyes that betrayed that she’d been crying when he hadn’t been looking.

None of it was fair.  Of course, life rarely was-- but this gnawed at his chest with the injustice.  If Sally had wanted to be her mother, why hadn’t she done it before? A piece of paper, signed with a few witnesses and a bloody priest, shouldn’t have made a difference.  

And yet, John had used that same piece of paper to invalidate the years they’d helped and supported him.

“We’ll have to … to pack up her things.  Her toys and.. Spare clothes… You have that crystal experiment you were working on with her.  If we’re careful, we should be able to move it to John’s house. She was so excited about it, I … I don’t want her to miss out on seeing the end.”  Molly’s voice broke the quiet, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was his own aching heart, or empathy for hers, that made him want to reach out.

He didn’t.

Somehow, he didn’t think it would help.  And it certainly wouldn’t change anything.  In the end, Rosie was John’s.

Now John and Sally’s.  

Those were the facts, however much it hurt.

“She should get enough light from her windowsill.”  He agreed, and took a sip of his brackish, cold tea to wash down the lump that had formed in his throat.  “And don’t forget all those mind numbing children’s movies. If I never have to hear another bloody episode of Peppa Pig, it will be too soon.”

“Rosie’s a little old for them, anyway… We could donate them?  Bart’s is always looking for things for the children’s isolation rooms.”  

They could have had children of their own.  If Molly had asked, or he had offered. In the reflection of his sleeping laptop screen, Sherlock could see her moving around the living room, a box tucked under her arm.  And it was no stretch to imagine how a child would look in that frame; like Rosie, following her around with a string of rapid fire questions.

Molly would be laughing, and trying to answer.  

His parents would have loved grandchildren.  

And for a moment, Sherlock was tempted, his vivid imagination conjuring up an image of that life.  They could have been happy, he was almost certain.

Maybe not happy as she deserved, or as he'd been with Mycroft. But they could have gotten by.

“What do you think he meant by ‘only good influences’?”  Molly’s voice distracted him, and like a soap bubble popping-- sharp and absolute-- the image evaporated and Sherlock was left with only the present.

It wouldn’t be fair.  

Not when they both knew the truth.

That they were waiting out the inevitable together.  And a child would only be something to remember him by.  A piece of Sherlock Holmes left in the world when he was gone.

He’d been bleeding out since Mycroft’s death.  The slow, seeping wound he’d never been able to stanch; and had, instead, learned to live with.  

Sherlock wasn’t ready to go yet.  Not quite.

But it was only a matter of time, and Molly had never asked him to deny it.  

“I don’t care to hazard a guess.  And I’m not convinced even John knows what he was saying. His wife’s never approved of me; and that irrational bias has apparently tainted her view of you, by association.”

“But John-- _he_ should-- he _knows_ us--”  Molly’s voice cracked, and she hastily put down the half filled box of Rosie’s things.  She’d always known that it wouldn’t last forever, and there would come a time when Rosie wouldn’t be around as much.

But she’d expected a little warning!  Some respect from John for all they’d done.  

It ached, knowing Rosie could just be snatched away, and their part in her life dismissed out of hand.  

“John wants his idyllic postcard family.  But that doesn’t reflect on you. Rosie loves you, Molly.”

“And you.”  Molly cracked a sad smile, and finally crossed the living room to lean against the back of his chair.  Her hand was warm when it lighted on his shoulder with a squeeze, and Sherlock leaned back into the offered comfort with a shudder in his sighing exhale.

“You could, you know.  Have.. babies. Of your own.”

“I’m getting a little old for it, now. But maybe.”

 

_When this is over.  However long it takes._

_I promised him I'd look after you, and I intend to._

_I won't abandon you now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️


	7. seven years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock makes his peace with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give a massive thank-you to everyone that's stuck with my through this whole story. Your support has meant the world to me.
> 
> For something that was originally supposed to be a rather ridiculous one-shot, this series has taken on a life of its own! There's still a epilogue to come, but this, my friends, is what it's all been leading up to.
> 
> Enjoy ❤️

“When I was a little boy, I wanted to catch up to him.  He as always older, and taller, and smarter than I was. He.. Set the bar, for the sort of man I’d thought I would grow up to be.  Of course, that certainly didn’t happen.”

Sometimes, Molly would catch him staring at his reflection in the mirror.  Tracing the threads of silver and grey that had escaped into his once wholly black curls.  He would map the faint lines at the corners of his mouth, and eyes, and compare them to the final image of his brother in his mind.

It was the snapshot memory he’d carried safe inside his skull for seven years.

“When he died, I was so sure I would go with him.  There was simply no way to survive with half of myself missing.  But I didn’t… And for a long time, I didn’t entirely understand why.  In retrospect-- which is clearer than memory, and less stained with wishful nostalgia-- I can see that I wasn’t ready to go.”

It was the strangest thing, Molly thought, as they sat on the couch on a perfectly mundane Tuesday evening.  Just the same as so many other Tuesdays, with the dishes in the sink, waiting for morning, and the scattered pieces of his most recent experiment littered across the--

Only they weren’t, she realized.  The beakers had been cleaned, and were drying in the dish rack.  The materials had been put away.

Oh.

“But you are, now?” She asked, to the strange backdrop of the Great British Bake Off.  Her fingers hovered over the buttons on the remote for a moment, unsure if she could have this conversation without some background noise.  Something to drown out the rushing sound of falling in her ears.

Of course they’d known it would happen.  It was the inevitable, and always had been.  The literal deadline they’d been walking towards since that terrible night in the morgue.  

The world had changed around Sherlock, and Molly had watched him slowly let things go.  He’d made his peace with the world in fragments, and now?

Now he was looking at her from across the the couch, his fingers curled loosely against the cover of the book he’d been reading.  And whatever he had been waiting for? Had happened. He looked calm.

Content.  

“The flat’s going to seem very quiet without you.”  She laughed faintly, and ignored the remote in favour of reaching out for his hand.  It was almost impossible to blink back the tears that burned in the corners of her eyes, but somehow she managed.  After all, there would be time to cry tomorrow.

And in the days to come, when the patterns of her life shifted and restructured, and there would be empty spaces he had left.  It would hurt (it already did), and that was alright. Because accepting grief was not the same as not feeling it.

“I’m not going to miss you.”  Sherlock promised, and with their joined hands, he pulled Molly in close to his side, “I never believed in something as unscientific as an afterlife.  But I know Mycroft is waiting for me. And when you’ve finished everything you have left to do? I’ll see you again.’

“Someone needs to be here to take care of Rosie and Lestrade.  And to tell me what I’ve missed, without a lot of sentimental embellishments.”

He was precisely as old as Mycroft had been, that day in Sherrinford.  Sherlock had finally caught up to his brother, and he was sure that they had both waited more than long enough.  They belonged together.

It was the truth that had run indelibly through the whole of his life; he and Mycroft had been fashioned to fit together.  “Sometimes I feel like I could see him. Just out of the corner of my eye. He’s been very patient, Molly. And so have I.”

Resting her head against his chest, Molly didn’t tell him that she’d felt the same way.  A shadow just beyond the periphery, waiting. She wasn’t going to ask Sherlock to stay, and there was nothing much left to be said.  “I’ll make sure your ashes are combined with his. And scattered under the laburnum tree at the bottom of your parent’s old yard.” She promised, as he had requested.

“Thank you.”  Sherlock smiled, and rested his cheek against the top of her head, “I’m ready to go home.”

…

Sherlock’s sheets felt the same as they always had, when he pulled the blankets up around him.  But when he closed his eyes, he could smell notes of cedar and grapefruit in the air, and knew that he was not alone.

“Does it hurt?”  He whispered into the quiet, and felt the bed dip down beside him.

The arms that curled around him were as strong and solid as his dreams had never been.  Familiar, as they had always been. His Mycroft.

Finally.

Sherlock wasn’t certain if he was alive when he curled into the offered embrace, and buried his face in the warm crook of Mycroft’s neck.  He didn't mind not knowing. 

There was no fear, not anymore.

“Shh... No.  It’s just falling asleep.  I’ve got you now, brother mine... Just rest.  I won’t let you go again.”


	8. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end, and a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this story was supposed to be a one shot, a little something that popped into my head and demanded to be written. Since then, it's spanned 101 days, and thousands of words, and taken on a life of its own.
> 
> Credit for the laburnum tree goes to the wonderful sherlock221bismymuse, as I'd never heard of it before reading her story!
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you to everyone who's stuck with this series, and me... I've been lucky to meet some wonderful people through writing it. 
> 
> And now, on to the ending!

“I keep waiting for him to just walk up behind me.  Tap me of the shoulder, wearing that smug smirk of his. Don’t… Think I’m quite ready for him to be gone.”

Brilliant yellow petals dripped from the arching branches over their heads, and littered the ground in a carpet of gold and sunshine.  Greg could imagine Sherlock playing here as a child, a mop-topped little boy; too loud and too quick, running through the petals until they flew up into a cloud around him.

It felt like an after image, floating over the scene when he blinked.  The stones here held memories of a childhood Greg had never seen, but he could imagine it, idealized and sweet in his mind.  

It was how he wanted it to have been.

And if it wasn’t accurate?  Well, the fantasy wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“I know… I thought it would be easier to let him go.  I wasn’t like I didn’t know it was coming. But I keep looking over my shoulder to talk to him, and--”  Molly’s voice wavered, pitched soft to hide the telltale crack. “And he’s not there. I’ve thought about moving, that it might.. Be easier?  But I think it would be like running away from his memory, and I don’t really want to do that. I might-- move, I mean, not run away-- later. But not just yet.”

Greg settled his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in against his side, not entirely sure which of them was comforting the other.  He wanted to believe it was him; that he was strong enough to bear that for both of them.

Make it easier on her, after all that had happened.  

But the truth was, he drew just as much reassurance from her warm, living presence.  

“Speaking of ‘not here’, where’s John?”  He asked, instead of answering that knotty question.  After all, they were friends, and Molly would have words for him, if she thought he was trying to coddle her.  “Thought he’d be here, at least.”

No, they’d help each other.  And maybe that was alright, too.

“He… Said he’d be at the funeral on Friday.  I haven’t talked to him much. I tried, but… I’m not sure he’s really ready to accept any of this.  He’s angry, and-” She exhaled slowly, and found Greg’s waist with uncertain fingers, twisting into the fabric of his shirt.  “He’s allowed to be. I’m not going to tell him that he can’t grieve in his own way. Eventually he’ll come around.”

Greg wished he shared her confidence.

The yellow petals obscured the fine sprinkling of grey ash they’d scattered on the ground; they were part of it, now.  “He wanted to be here. Both of them. No more walls and boxes between them; I think they’d been happy, here.” Her voice caught again, _happy_ , and Greg managed a faint smile for her ability to read him.

“Yeah, bet they were.  And you know Mycroft wouldn’t stand with Sherlock being left out here alone.  Better they’re together, yeah? As it should be.”

There was technically nothing left for them to do here.  And yet, both of them lingered a little longer, enjoying the quiet.

Saying goodbye in a way they wouldn’t be able to on Friday, when the city turned out to mourn the man who had done so much, to help so many of them.  Just a few more minutes, they wordlessly agreed.

Life went on, and they would, too.  But Sherlock Holmes had left fingerprints on their lives, and neither of them was quite ready to walk away from that.  With a sigh, Molly sank down under the tree, slightly away from where they’d scattered the ashed, and leaned her back against the trunk.  

Greg let her think, his fingers finding the letter in his pocket, the one Sherlock had left for him-- and which he hadn’t read.  Trust him to have the last word, he thought, and leaned against the bonnet of his car. The letter wasn’t sealed, just the tap of the envelope folded over and tucked inside, and with a resigned weight in his chest, Greg fished out the sheet of paper inside.

 

_Lestrade,_

_Did you expect me to use your given name, after all these years?  Hardly._

_If you're reading this, and you will be confused, and I won't be hurting anymore.  You’ll be wondering why I didn’t mention this to you, or give you the chance to say a proper goodbye.  I did consider it, of course._

_But you would have tried to stop me. To save me.  Even from myself and the inevitable._

_You’ve always done your best to take care of me, and you would never have been able to forgive yourself if I died on your watch._

_It has always been inevitable, the only variable has been the amount of time it took to happen.  This has always been out of your hands, so there’s no place for your self recrimination._

 

Dabbing eyes eyes with the cuff of his sleeve when he’d finished, Greg looked over to Molly, half asleep beneath the tree and flecks of bright yellow petals in her hair.  “Come on, Molls. Time to get something warm into you. Can’t stand here all day.”

There were things to do.  And when Molly managed a smile for him, Greg felt a little more hopeful about it all.

Neither of them was alone, and that was a good start.

 

_Take care of Molly and Rosie._

_Molly in particular is going to feel like she has to comfort you, and there’s very little you can do to stop that.  But since I won’t be there to take care of her, or Rosie, I leave them in your capable hands._

_Protect them like you’ve always done for me._

_You’ve always been good to me, and often a better than I deserved._

_Thank you for that._

_This is what I want, and I am not afraid._  

 _Your friend,  
_ _Sherlock Holmes_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️


End file.
